Falling Fast
Page 39
I open one after another. They’re all from my grandmother, one for every birthday, every Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, and holidays in between, all handwritten in swirly script that is unusual and beautiful. And all of them tell me a story, a sad story of a woman who lost her only daughter, only to lose her only granddaughter years later when her father died and his wife told her a lie that changed everything. Reading the last letter in the box, my lungs burn with anger and my heart fills with pain.
Dearest butterfly,
I’ve just gotten home from the doctors. They told me that I have dementia. I don’t think they know what they are talking about. I haven’t lost my mind. At least, I don’t think I have. Then again, if I did, I’m not sure I’d know.
(I laugh at that then pull in a shaky breath.)
I do know I haven’t forgotten about you. I think about you often and wish you would answer my letters, even just to tell me that you’re okay and you’re happy.
I love you, my butterfly.
Grandma
Butterfly. I forgot she used to call me that. I don’t know how I had forgotten, but I did. Holding that letter to my chest, my vision blurs. Putting the letters back in the box, I close the lid on it then get up and carry it inside with me. Setting it on the counter in the kitchen, I pour more wine into my empty glass then take a deep drink, hoping it will wash away the acid burning the back of my throat, making it hard to breathe.
It doesn’t help. Holding the glass tighter, I fight myself from throwing it against the wall and screaming about how unfair life is. I fight myself from calling my stepmom and yelling at her for what she did. Closing my eyes, tears stream down my cheeks. It won’t make a difference what I do now. Nothing will change. I won’t get back the time I’ve missed out on with a woman who meant the world to me. A woman who needed me and thought I abandoned her when she had already lost her husband and her daughter. Nothing will get back that time; no amount of tears or screaming will be able to fix this. It’s too late for my grandma and me to rebuild what was stolen from us.
Taking the box with me upstairs, I get into bed and hold it in my lap, running my fingers across one of the engraved butterfly wings, before opening the lid. Reading the letters once more, I soak in every single word before curling up in a ball and crying myself to sleep.
CHAPTER 11
Barely Holding On
Gia
“GIA?” COLTON SHOUTS AT me from downstairs, and I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror.
“Yeah?” I call around the toothbrush hanging out of my mouth.
“Come here a sec,” he yells back, so I spit and rinse my mouth out, then drop my toothbrush into the cup with his.
Going across the bedroom to the railing of the loft, I look down at where he’s standing in the kitchen with the phone to his ear, and his eyes point up at me. “You rang?”
“Did you go to the storage locker Friday?” he asks, and I study the expression on his face, trying to read it but not getting it.
“I go every Friday to stock up for the weekend,” I remind him of something he should know. Because since I started working at the bar, I’ve been doing a pick-up every Friday to stock up for the weekend, and again on Mondays to replenish whatever needs to be replenished.
“Did you lock up before you left?”
“I always lock up,” I say, leaving the railing so I can head down the stairs. Going to the kitchen, I stop a few feet away from him and watch as he wraps his hand around the back of his neck and drops his eyes to his boots.
“She said she locked up, so she locked up. I don’t know how someone got in.” At his words, my stomach drops. “Yeah. Right. I’ll meet you there. Give me thirty.” He pulls the phone from his ear then looks at me. “Someone got into the storage unit between Friday and today. Lock was hanging open, not busted. What wasn’t taken, was completely destroyed.”
“What?” I breathe, resting my hand against the edge of the counter to hold myself up.
“I need to get over there. Dad just called the cops and they’re on their way.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, baby,” he denies, shaking his head, and I stare at him then take a step back.
“You don’t think—”
“No,” he cuts me off before I can finish my question, and his hand wraps around my hip, bringing me a step closer to him. “If you say you locked up, you locked up.”
“I locked up,” I whisper, and he nods, pressing his lips to my forehead in a soft touch.
“I gotta get over there. I’ll call you.” He lets me go with a peck to my lips, and I watch him disappear out the front door then listen to his motorcycle start up. Going to the window, I wrap my arms around my middle as he takes off down the lane.
Someone broke into the storage locker. Who and how? I know I locked up behind myself. I always make sure to double-check the lock before I leave just to be safe. With no answer, I start to head back upstairs to get ready for work but stop when I hear my cell ringing. Going to the kitchen where my phone’s charging, I pick it up and slide my finger across the screen. “Hello,” I answer after putting the phone to my ear.
“Gia, it’s Elizabeth.” She stops speaking and my eyes slide closed. I know what she’s going to say before she says it, just by the sound of regret in her voice. “I just went in to check on your grandma. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she’s passed, honey.”
“I… How? I just saw her last night.” I whisper, as pain radiates through my chest and squeezes my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
“Sometimes it happens that way. One minute, they’re with us and they seem fine, and the next, they’re gone,” she says quietly, and the pain in my chest expands. “I’m sorry, Gia. I know this is going to be hard on you, but do you want to see her before they come to take her away?”
My lungs seize up. I don’t want to see her again knowing she’s gone, but at the same time, I need to see her one last time.
“Yes, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I wheeze out, opening my eyes and seeing nothing.
“I’ll let them know you’re on your way,” she says softly, then adds, “again, I’m sorry, Gia.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and stare at the phone in my hand while trying to pull in a breath. Dialing Colton’s number, I wait for him to answer, but he doesn’t. His phone goes to voicemail, so I hang up and head upstairs.
Fighting back the crushing pain around my heart, I take off my nightgown, put on a bra, and change into jeans and a T-shirt. Once that’s done, I head back downstairs, slip on my shoes by the door, grab my keys, and get into my Jeep. Moving on autopilot, I dial Colton’s number again on the way, listen as it rings, and then hang up, not leaving him a message when it goes to voicemail again.
~**~
“Her stuff will be boxed up. You can pick it up in a few days,” Ritta, the nursing home director—a petite, older Chinese woman with kind eyes and gentle features—says from my side, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. “The funeral home will also be calling you to set up the funeral arrangements.”
“Okay,” I whisper, still looking at the rumpled sheets on the bed where my grandmother was, until two men wearing suits came in with a stretcher to carry her out of the room and take her away.
“Do you want to come to my office and call someone to come pick you up?” she asks, squeezing my hand, and my eyes go to hers. I tried to call Colton again after I got here, and again, he didn’t answer, and again, I didn’t leave a message.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, keeping hold of my hand, now doing it tightly. “I don’t think you should be driving in your state.”
“I don’t live far, maybe fifteen minutes. I’ll be okay,” I assure her, but she doesn’t look convinced. If anything, she looks even more worried than she did seconds ago.
“Every other week on Tuesday afternoons, we have a grief counselor here for people who have suffered the loss of a family member or friend. Sometimes, sharing your experience with others who have gone through something similar helps you heal.”
Dearest butterfly,
I’ve just gotten home from the doctors. They told me that I have dementia. I don’t think they know what they are talking about. I haven’t lost my mind. At least, I don’t think I have. Then again, if I did, I’m not sure I’d know.
(I laugh at that then pull in a shaky breath.)
I do know I haven’t forgotten about you. I think about you often and wish you would answer my letters, even just to tell me that you’re okay and you’re happy.
I love you, my butterfly.
Grandma
Butterfly. I forgot she used to call me that. I don’t know how I had forgotten, but I did. Holding that letter to my chest, my vision blurs. Putting the letters back in the box, I close the lid on it then get up and carry it inside with me. Setting it on the counter in the kitchen, I pour more wine into my empty glass then take a deep drink, hoping it will wash away the acid burning the back of my throat, making it hard to breathe.
It doesn’t help. Holding the glass tighter, I fight myself from throwing it against the wall and screaming about how unfair life is. I fight myself from calling my stepmom and yelling at her for what she did. Closing my eyes, tears stream down my cheeks. It won’t make a difference what I do now. Nothing will change. I won’t get back the time I’ve missed out on with a woman who meant the world to me. A woman who needed me and thought I abandoned her when she had already lost her husband and her daughter. Nothing will get back that time; no amount of tears or screaming will be able to fix this. It’s too late for my grandma and me to rebuild what was stolen from us.
Taking the box with me upstairs, I get into bed and hold it in my lap, running my fingers across one of the engraved butterfly wings, before opening the lid. Reading the letters once more, I soak in every single word before curling up in a ball and crying myself to sleep.
CHAPTER 11
Barely Holding On
Gia
“GIA?” COLTON SHOUTS AT me from downstairs, and I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror.
“Yeah?” I call around the toothbrush hanging out of my mouth.
“Come here a sec,” he yells back, so I spit and rinse my mouth out, then drop my toothbrush into the cup with his.
Going across the bedroom to the railing of the loft, I look down at where he’s standing in the kitchen with the phone to his ear, and his eyes point up at me. “You rang?”
“Did you go to the storage locker Friday?” he asks, and I study the expression on his face, trying to read it but not getting it.
“I go every Friday to stock up for the weekend,” I remind him of something he should know. Because since I started working at the bar, I’ve been doing a pick-up every Friday to stock up for the weekend, and again on Mondays to replenish whatever needs to be replenished.
“Did you lock up before you left?”
“I always lock up,” I say, leaving the railing so I can head down the stairs. Going to the kitchen, I stop a few feet away from him and watch as he wraps his hand around the back of his neck and drops his eyes to his boots.
“She said she locked up, so she locked up. I don’t know how someone got in.” At his words, my stomach drops. “Yeah. Right. I’ll meet you there. Give me thirty.” He pulls the phone from his ear then looks at me. “Someone got into the storage unit between Friday and today. Lock was hanging open, not busted. What wasn’t taken, was completely destroyed.”
“What?” I breathe, resting my hand against the edge of the counter to hold myself up.
“I need to get over there. Dad just called the cops and they’re on their way.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, baby,” he denies, shaking his head, and I stare at him then take a step back.
“You don’t think—”
“No,” he cuts me off before I can finish my question, and his hand wraps around my hip, bringing me a step closer to him. “If you say you locked up, you locked up.”
“I locked up,” I whisper, and he nods, pressing his lips to my forehead in a soft touch.
“I gotta get over there. I’ll call you.” He lets me go with a peck to my lips, and I watch him disappear out the front door then listen to his motorcycle start up. Going to the window, I wrap my arms around my middle as he takes off down the lane.
Someone broke into the storage locker. Who and how? I know I locked up behind myself. I always make sure to double-check the lock before I leave just to be safe. With no answer, I start to head back upstairs to get ready for work but stop when I hear my cell ringing. Going to the kitchen where my phone’s charging, I pick it up and slide my finger across the screen. “Hello,” I answer after putting the phone to my ear.
“Gia, it’s Elizabeth.” She stops speaking and my eyes slide closed. I know what she’s going to say before she says it, just by the sound of regret in her voice. “I just went in to check on your grandma. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she’s passed, honey.”
“I… How? I just saw her last night.” I whisper, as pain radiates through my chest and squeezes my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
“Sometimes it happens that way. One minute, they’re with us and they seem fine, and the next, they’re gone,” she says quietly, and the pain in my chest expands. “I’m sorry, Gia. I know this is going to be hard on you, but do you want to see her before they come to take her away?”
My lungs seize up. I don’t want to see her again knowing she’s gone, but at the same time, I need to see her one last time.
“Yes, I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I wheeze out, opening my eyes and seeing nothing.
“I’ll let them know you’re on your way,” she says softly, then adds, “again, I’m sorry, Gia.”
“Thank you.” I hang up and stare at the phone in my hand while trying to pull in a breath. Dialing Colton’s number, I wait for him to answer, but he doesn’t. His phone goes to voicemail, so I hang up and head upstairs.
Fighting back the crushing pain around my heart, I take off my nightgown, put on a bra, and change into jeans and a T-shirt. Once that’s done, I head back downstairs, slip on my shoes by the door, grab my keys, and get into my Jeep. Moving on autopilot, I dial Colton’s number again on the way, listen as it rings, and then hang up, not leaving him a message when it goes to voicemail again.
~**~
“Her stuff will be boxed up. You can pick it up in a few days,” Ritta, the nursing home director—a petite, older Chinese woman with kind eyes and gentle features—says from my side, taking my hand and giving it a squeeze. “The funeral home will also be calling you to set up the funeral arrangements.”
“Okay,” I whisper, still looking at the rumpled sheets on the bed where my grandmother was, until two men wearing suits came in with a stretcher to carry her out of the room and take her away.
“Do you want to come to my office and call someone to come pick you up?” she asks, squeezing my hand, and my eyes go to hers. I tried to call Colton again after I got here, and again, he didn’t answer, and again, I didn’t leave a message.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, keeping hold of my hand, now doing it tightly. “I don’t think you should be driving in your state.”
“I don’t live far, maybe fifteen minutes. I’ll be okay,” I assure her, but she doesn’t look convinced. If anything, she looks even more worried than she did seconds ago.
“Every other week on Tuesday afternoons, we have a grief counselor here for people who have suffered the loss of a family member or friend. Sometimes, sharing your experience with others who have gone through something similar helps you heal.”
